record or tracking of their plane.
When they leveled off to ninety-two hundred feet someplace over the southern Georgia interior, he looked over his shoulder. The kid was in a deep slumber, but breathing normally.
“He’s got himself a good-looking kid here,” he said to Phillip.
Phillip gave a cursory glance over his shoulder. “Yeah.” He was more interested in the lights of the city in the distance.
“Too bad about the scratches on his face,” Oliver said.
“Like we’re going to have to take him back.”
“Right.”
Phillip checked his watch against the clock on the instrument panel. “Twelve hours. I’m getting tired of these long hauls,” Phillip said.
“Take a third as long in a Lear.”
“Except you can’t land on water and do midnight drops. What did you fly in the service?”
“F-1011s. Quite a comedown, huh? Doing kiddie runs in a Beaver floatplane.”
“But the pay is better.”
“There’s that.”
“But you made good money as a PI,” Phillip said, popping open a can of beer. “How come if you were such a crackerjack bringing in fugitives you stopped doing it?”
“Because it’s against the law for a convicted felon to be a detective, private or otherwise.”
“That’s what’s wrong with this country—they get everything backward. If you wanted to know how bad guys think, hire a crook, right?”
“And pay him good.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Phillip looked over his shoulder at the boy. He was sound asleep. “We got another drop tomorrow night, but the forecast calls for a storm.”
“Uh-uh,” Oliver said. “No more repeats of the last time.”
11
COLD CREEK, TENNESSEE
Vernon and Winifred Dixon lived in a single-level brick structure that could not have been more than thirty feet long and half as wide. If it had wheels, it could have been a trailer home made of brick.
The place sat at the edge of an endless woodland about twenty miles northwest of Chattanooga in an area of Cold Creek called Gad’s Buck Knob, according to the map. Greg had no idea what the name meant; neither did Sergeant Andy Kemmer, the Tennessee State Police detective who had been assigned the Dixon case since the boy’s disappearance sixteen months ago.
Kemmer, a tall, thin nervous-looking man about forty, met Greg at the Chattanooga Airport. He was dressed casually and driving a squad car, so there was no need for Greg to pick up a rental. Before they left the airport, Greg bought a bouquet of flowers.
On the phone, Greg had explained to Kemmer that he was here to investigate the similarities between the Dixon case and another he had been working on for three years. What Greg didn’t mention was that he was here on his own money and time, which was why they were meeting on Saturday. As far as anybody at the Sagamore station knew, he was off fishing for the weekend.
Kemmer gave him a copy of the Dixon boy’s complete file, including the names, addresses, and depositions of everybody they had interviewed since the boy’s disappearance as well as his medical and dental records. “Ten pounds of notes, and zero leads,” Kemmer said.
The drive took over an hour, mostly through backcountry roads. On the way, Kemmer warned Greg that the Dixons weren’t keen on the police. Apparently a few years back, Vernon Dixon had threatened a bank loan officer with physical harm because he couldn’t make mortgage payments. When the sheriff’s officer came by to investigate, Vernon met him with a rifle. He was arrested, put in jail for three days, and fined two hundred dollars for threatening an officer. “He’s one of those people who just doesn’t trust the law. Grady disappeared, and he refused to accept how we couldn’t find him. Bitched and moaned we weren’t doing enough, which was bullshit, man, since we had half the county looking for him, including dogs specially trained to sniff out cadavers. We musta covered twenty square miles of woods—and out there it’s as thick as fur.”
“Do you have kids?”
“Two.” Then Kemmer considered the question. “Yeah, maybe when it’s your own it’s different. But, man, we hit stone. Not a flipping lead. But I’d be lying if I didn’t say we felt exonerated when he turned up your way. But the old man’s still pissing on us, so prepare yourself is all I gotta say.”
As small as it was, the Dixon place was tidy and cheerful looking, belying the agony the inhabitants must have suffered. Against the red brick was crisp white trim, including a porch banister running the length of the place. Pots of red geraniums hung from support poles. The upkeep was no doubt an expression of the Dixons’ hope against all odds. Greg wondered where people found such strength.
Kemmer pulled the car under a large shade tree. Sitting on a crushed gravel driveway was a battered gray station wagon. Attached to the side of the house was a propane tank. From a nearby willow hung a tire swing. A wading pool lay nearby. The water was bright green. What caught Greg’s eye was the faded yellow ribbon tied around a tree at the edge of the drive.
Greg got out of the car and instantly he felt perspiration bead across his brow. The heat and humidity were borderline lethal.
Vernon Dixon came out to greet them. He was a heavyset man, with thick hamlike arms, a balding head, and broad unfriendly red face. He was dressed in blue jeans, yellow work boots, and a black T-shirt. He nodded at Kemmer who nodded back and introduced Greg who handed Dixon a business card.
Dixon scowled at the card and the flowers in his hand.
“I’m very sorry about your son, Mr. Dixon.”
He gave Greg a nod.
“What kind of a name is Zakarian?”
“Armenian.”
Vernon grunted. “We don’t get many of your kind down here.”
“I guess not.”
“Is that like Arabian?”
“No.”
“Do you believe in God?”
“Is that important to know?”
“I asked you a question.”
“Sometimes.”
“
“Mr. Dixon, are we really going to stand out here and argue my religious convictions?”
“I guess not. But I don’t believe in the bastard anymore, because He let somebody take my kid.” Then he tossed his head toward the house. “It’s cooler inside.” And he led the way.
The interior was cooler with the help of a small AC humming in a rear window and a fan on the coffee table. They had entered a small living room with oversized chairs upholstered in green imitation leather. Mrs. Dixon was standing at the threshold to the kitchen wiping her hands on a towel. She was a solid-bodied woman with a drawn white face and short-cropped brown hair. She said hello to Kemmer and shook Greg’s hand.
Greg handed her the bouquet of flowers. “I’m very sorry about your son.”
She thanked him and went to get something to put them in.
“You boys want something to drink?” Dixon asked. “Beer? Lemonade? Dr Pepper? The lemonade’s fresh.
